


Nick x Winona Ficlet #1

by maskedbriala



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, emetophobia warning / vomit mention, gross stingwing/bug sting stuff, my cute detective squad fending for each other in the wasteland is so good, sfw, this is some seriously self-indulgent minor h/c fluff, wasteland-typical violence mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 10:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10012727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedbriala/pseuds/maskedbriala
Summary: It's very likely I'll write lots more fic about my sole survivor Winona Greene because I love her with all my heart, so here's a warm-up with her boyfriend Nick. If you'd like to see what she looks like, here's a reference!https://dalishpariah.tumblr.com/tagged/winona





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's very likely I'll write lots more fic about my sole survivor Winona Greene because I love her with all my heart, so here's a warm-up with her boyfriend Nick. If you'd like to see what she looks like, here's a reference!  
> https://dalishpariah.tumblr.com/tagged/winona

It was a bad fucking week. Burning through stimpacks and Med-X like it was going out of style, Winona was pretty sure she had one of every possible injury the wasteland had to offer. A gash in her thigh from a raider switchblade, a burned hand from a close brush with a Forged, a big purple bruise from an especially enthusiastic feral.

And now, this. Before the war, Winona didn’t like bugs much. A wasp chasing her into hiding in a neighbour’s pool at age eight and stinging her face when she surfaced for air used to be her worst insect-related misadventure, but the wasteland was competitive. Every bad experience prewar Massachusetts dished out had to be trumped by its irradiated counterpart.

Nick caught up to her, assessed the stingwing, and then stomped the the rest of the life out of it. It was dead enough it wasn’t worth the bullet.The synth only quit when he was damn sure it was dead, and approached his fallen companion. Her periphery ran greyish and bleary like watery ink. The toxic rush of the sting twitched her muscles and guts.

“Shit. It got you?” he asked, getting down to one knee beside her. 

“Great work Detect-” Winona seized and then decided to cut the snark, gripping the sting site under her sleeve. Her guts wanted to clench and coil together and she curled in on herself, fetal on the stubbly pavement before vomiting out what little food was in her stomach. It was somehow especially disgusting catching a glance at the faded pink of what was once a Fancy Lads Snack Cake. What the hell kind of colourant stuck around two hundred years and survived her stomach acid?

Valentine did what he could to keep her hair out of the vomit, grimacing with concern. “Damn. Hold still.” 

She could hear him rummaging through his bag and she focused her attention on the cold, stubby asphalt on under cheek. The stimpack punctured her thigh and she grimaced; it was better to focus on all the gross dirt on the road than the pain. 

“Fuck,” she breathed. 

“Ya shouldn’t tense up like that, it’ll make it hurt more,” Valentine commented, voice not without sympathy. He eased her to sit slowly, skeletal metal hand on her lower back to support her balance. “How’s that head feel?” 

“Not as bad as my arm,” she snorted. 

“Yeah, well let’s be thankful you didn’t get stung in the head,” he chuckled, some relief slipping into his voice. “Especially not by one of those bad boys.” 

“A wasp stung my face once,” she said, exhausted. Weakness was seeping into her muscles now and she exhaled sharply to orient herself again. It was nowhere near quitting time, not in the middle of the wasteland without shelter in sight. “Pre-war, luckily.” 

“Sounds unlucky to me regardless,” he said, amber eyes following her closely. “Can you walk?” 

“Oh yeah.” She started to stand, feeling him lean more weight into the hand supporting her back when she did. Halfway onto her feet, a rush of nausea flooded back into her head and she fell forward onto one knee, palms planted into the rough road for stability. “Fuck. Maybe not.”

“I think you need a doctor,” Nick said, concerned. He lit a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, still crouched at her side. 

“I don’t have the caps for a doctor,” she replied, opening her eyes again. Something that war couldn’t change, it seemed, was insurmountable medical expense. “I’ll get Sturges to give me a look when I get back to Sanctuary. He fixes machines, he can...probably fix people.” 

“I’ll get the fee,” Nick replied. “I never looked into just how venomous those suckers are. Didn’t really apply to me. But I don’t want you getting more sick out here.” 

“A caravaner mentioned it’s only really bad if you get stung more than once,” she said, leaning back on her heels. It was hard not to be stubborn. “Seriously, Valentine. I’m okay.” 

Nick snorted. “You’re stubborn like an ox, y’know.”

“Made me a good lawyer.” She shot him a little smirk, a trickle of cold sweat running a clean streak in the dirt on her jaw. 

“I’ll bet. C’mere.” He leaned down, one arm around her waist and the other under her knee. 

“Hey, hey---wait,” she said, “what are-?” 

“You’re not arguing your way out of this one,” Nick said, hoisting her up with a strength surprising considering his slight metal frame. “We’re sitting ducks out here and you’re not about to be walking straight any time soon.” 

God, he really was one of the good ones. It’d been maybe four or five months since she first saw the wasteland, but one of her first lessons learned after leaving the safety of the Sanctuary bubble was that everyone was usually out for themselves. If she weren’t with Nick Valentine, she might’ve woken up alone without her caps and gun. Or dead. And here he was, carrying her down the empty road, no hands free to use a weapon.

Despite resigning to being carried, it was hard not to argue. “You’re a walking target,” she muttered softly. “Someone’s gonna shoot you in the back.” 

“And here I thought I was supposed to be the experienced wasteland cynic,” he chortled. Winona plunked her head against his chest and let her eyes close to fend off another wave of nausea, trying not to think about the pain in her arm. The whir of parts under Nick’s trench coat was a minor comfort.

Without any way to tell how much time had passed, she cracked an eye open when it felt like at least an hour. The sun was going down and it was starting to get cold.

“Shit,” she mumbled, catching sight of an embarrassing pink puke smear on his tie. “I got vomit on you. Sorry.” 

Under the coat, some part of his machinery rumbled with a chuckle. “If you think that’s the worst bodily fluid I’ve had on me in my line of work, I’d like to retract my comment about you being a cynic.” 

“I’m really not a cynic,” she snorted softly. “Not usually.”

“You’re more optimistic than most folks, if they were in your shoes,” he agreed, slowly setting her down in the back of a broken down minivan. It was hard to tell how long it would be until they reached a settlement, and better to pack in for the night with one of them unable to fight. 

The back of the van was once carpeted, but years of squatter use wore it down to the plastic-y floor beneath it. Winona tugged off her bag and set it behind herself to use as a pillow, pausing and brushing her bare black hair. 

“Where the fuck is my hat.”

The urgency of the demand made Nick laugh. “I got it,” he replied, producing it from his own satchel as proof. “I wouldn’t leave something like that behind.” 

“Thank God. What the hell would I tell Preston?” she said, tugging it back over her head. 

“Like he’d care if you wear the General’s uniform or not,” Nick teased, opening up a bottle of dirty water and soaking a cloth. He handed it to Winona and she cleaned her face weakly, rubbing her teeth with the rough fibres to try to scrub off the plaque. At this point, the lack of mirrors felt like a blessing, considering the equal lack of showers or general hygeine.

“I wouldn’t feel right without the hat,” she admitted, laughing. Her voice was raw and weary now, and she settled down in the corner of the back seat and wall. “It’d be like you, without your coat. It’s part of the gimmick.” 

“Gimmick?” he smirked. 

“I know it’s a gimmick, Nick. We all do,” she said, shuffling her coat off her shoulders and using the light of her Pip-Boy to inspect the sting. The stinger wasn’t still in her skin as far as she could tell, but the wound was puffy and angry red.

“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.” 

He always kept watch. Another reason why he was one of the good ones. Sure, he didn’t /need/ to sleep, but it would be nice if he could set himself into rest mode once in awhile during their travels. He’d never accept it though. ‘You organic folk need it more than I do’, he’d say. 

“Thanks.” She settled in and closed her eyes, hearing Nick sit beside her against the inner wall of the van and cross his ankles. His gun laid across his ankles and the presence of any loaded gun near her head made the hair on the back of her neck stand briefly, but she relaxed again soon enough.

Sleep came instantly, deep and consuming. Before the war, the most uncomfortable place Winona ever had to sleep was on an airplane, but it was another experience the wasteland had to compete with. There had been flickering subway bathrooms with the door barred in close quarters with Piper, listening to shuffling ferals all night on the other side. There had been up in a tree with Hancock, trying to avoid any wandering mongrels. Given those experiences alone, the crumbled minivan felt like a five star hotel.

Being stung by a stingwing was exhausting, but even her body expending all its energy trying to sweat out the venom wasn’t enough to keep her survival instincts out of commission. She woke when she heard Nick’s gun go off and sat up, grabbing her shotgun immediately and lifting it. The detective was a few feet ahead, using the butt of his gun to fend off a second bloatfly before twisting it over again and shooting it. The bloatflies felt like old friends compared to the stingwings. 

“You good? Are there anymore?” she demanded quickly, anxiously, voice husky from sleep. 

“I’m good. Go back to sleep Nonny,” he said, after a second and third glance around. The sun was starting to peer over the horizon again, bleaching the night sky in the east a pale blue.

Winona sat back slowly, putting the safety back onto her gun. She was exhausted and disoriented, but a little smirk still found her lips. “What’d you call me?” 

“Err---” He seemed surprised that she noticed, and she wondered if he even realized he’d said it. “I won’t, if you don’t like it.” 

“I like it,” she said, pleased. She grinned a little. The pain of the sting was almost gone, now just really raw and tender under her sleeve.

Valentine shifted and looked away for a second, lighting up another cigarette. “Well.” She’d never made him speechless before.

“Come on,” she said, deciding to relieve him of the embarrassment of being called out on the nickname. A shift in conversation would do nicely, even if she would much rather tease him. She pulled her back up onto her shoulder, scooting down to the edge of the van. “Come on. I bet we can make Goodneighbor before noon if we get a move on.”


End file.
